Matchsticks
by cheddarbiscuit
Summary: There are some dark secrets rotting under all that snow.
1. Chapter 1

cheddarbiscuit Presents:

Matchsticks.

Disclaimer: Do not own.

Notes: I was going to sit on this for a while, develop it a little more—but it's FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH.

I can't _not_ post it.

So I guess this makes this my first Holiday Special.

* * *

Chapter One:

He used to love Burgess. Really, he did. He had always felt inexplicably drawn too it; and he always loved winter in the north because it meant he could spend his days in Burgess. He had loved seeing how it changed over the years, pointing out what was always the same to himself, freezing the new things for the first time, and looking at the toll his ice took on the older places.

He used to love the lake, and he had no idea why at the time, he would sit on the frozen edge and he would feel nostalgia, joy in his eyes, butterflies in his belly, a tingle in his spine, like he was home and he didn't need to be seen. At the time, Burgess had been important because he had been 'born' there, as Jack Frost. So, on some level, he knew it had been important. Never in those three hundred years had he imagined he had a life—much less one that _ended_ in Burgess.

He actually hates Burgess now.

He winds up in near panic because he manages to convince himself that his baby sister is still _there_ somewhere. She is not, of course, she has been dead for several generations, but his heart insists that she is. She has to be. She's just around the corner. He just cannot accept that she is not—this is Burgess. She has to be here! _She has to be here so find her you idiot!_ He remembers her face, but he cannot remember how she died. Three hundred years he had watched Burgess so fondly, and she had slipped away under his nose. He had never even noticed.

Did she ever move away? Did she ever get married? Surely the neighbors didn't let his family starve?

He cannot come to terms with it. He sees her everywhere. Every pair of brown eyes. Every lock of dark hair, every turned up nose. The laughter of every child. They all make him jump and turn around, searching wildly for her.

Didn't she look exactly like Jamie? She must have looked exactly like Jamie.

He hates Burgess now.

So much.

The ice on the lake is never thick enough for his liking. When he looks at it he feels the shock of the cold water again—and what is strange is that it bothers _him_ the _spirit of cold_. He can hear his little sister crying and he cannot do anything about it. The ice is never thick enough for his liking, but he can't freeze it through because that will kill the fish, and he can't kill the fish, because then everything else would die out, too.

But the ice just isn't thick enough for his liking.

Is it worth it to see Jamie?

Yes.

But the ice on the lake is always so _thin._

He needs to talk to someone about these flashbacks, they are not good, but he cannot think of anyone who would relate to it, or any of the other Guardians he would want to bother—they are always too busy. It's not right to hate his home town, the town most of his believers are from. It's not worth it. He cannot even manage to be conflicted about it. He hates Burgess—loves the kids, though.

Jamie's astounding observation cut through his thoughts, "You're always fussing over the lake."

He is sitting on a rock with a big puffy coat on, and long underwear under his jeans, and long, heavy woolen socks. He had taken off his ice stakes for a rest while the others still skated over the lake's cut-up surface and Jack went around making sure the ice was not too thin. He paused, looked at Jamie, and said, "I don't want you to fall in."

Jamie laughed a little, "It's freezing out. It's thick enough."

"Yeah, but..." Jack reached for an answer that felt reasonable, "You're wearing it down!"

"Not _that_ much!" Jamie replied, "You're fussing over it like Mom fusses over the floor when she mops."

He was right. Jack stood fast and stated bluntly, "It's not thick enough."

Jamie replied, "Why not?" he asked, "What about all of the other lakes? You fuss over all of them, or just this one?"

"I just don't _trust_ this one!" Jack exclaimed loudly, prodding the thick ice with his staff. Well _that_ sounded a lot less crazy in his head. The kids stopped abruptly and all looked at him. He felt very embarrassed and he laughed awkwardly, "What I mean is... No, that's pretty much what I meant. I don't trust this lake."

"Why not?" Jamie tilted his head.

"I... Well, I... I just don't want you to fall in."

"But it's thick enough." Jamie replied.

He should not have said it again, but he did anyway, "I don't trust it."

Jamie laughed, "Why _not_?"

Shockingly, it was laughter that made the Guardian of Fun snap, "Because this is where—" he stopped himself.

Jamie's mocking ceased instantly and he was all ears, "What? What? This is where what?"

The others had migrated towards him now, and if he had not been able to fly, he would have been trapped, each one was demanding an explanation as to _why_ the ice of Burgess was so fickle and dastardly it could not be left unsupervised. Jack jumped off his ice and hovered for a second, "You'll have to catch me."

"No fair!" Pippa exclaimed, "You can _fly."_

He zipped off, and when he glanced back, they were all scrambling out of their ice skates and into their boots. Jack did not stray too far from the beaten path, and instead perched in a tree, too tall for any of them to climb, and waited for them to catch up.

They followed him as he hopped from high treetop to treetop, and when they got bored of craning their necks to see him, he descended, still going from tree to tree, but not actually flying. When he began to fly it was high up, so they could all see him, and just fast enough to outpace the fastest of them. When they had spread out far enough on their own, he doubled back, bringing them into a group again, and just barely missing their grabbing hands.

He dipped towards the ground, tracing back over their heads and going in a circle around them, at a speed he though would be too quick for them to catch, but just slow enough to see the big smile. Amidst the cries of unfairness, a pair of hands grabbed his staff and brought him down to the snow. Hard. And then a second pair grabbed his left ankle, and a voice exclaimed, "Caught you!"

"Okay, okay." Jack faked a grin, but his stomach was sinking fast, "You caught me."

He shook Cupcake off his staff, and Jamie off his leg and got to his feet. He considered zipping off again, but he had to be held to a certain level of integrity. He was a Guardian now, and they had wandered quite far into the woods, leaving them there would be un-Guardian like. The woods were dark, and the trees thick, so he walked ahead of them, to a brighter clearing, where the dastardly and fickle lake could be seen. He could leave now—they had a landmark to find their way by.

But it would still be un-Guardian like.

So he told them, "It's where I died."

Jamie looked genuinely sorry for laughing at him, "Oh." Then a burst of enthusiasm came back, "Wait you were human once?"

Jack took offense at that—human _once_ —he was human now, in his opinion. He had never stopped being human. He may have forgotten who he was, but he still held onto his humanity. He sat down, and they followed suit, finding places to sit in the snow and fallen pine needles and leaves.

"Yes, I was human... once." He used their words for it. He supposed, from their point of view, he was not really human anymore, "I had a Mom, and a sister and I guess I had a Dad at one point, but he died when I was little, so I don't really remember him, still."

"Do you remember what happened to them?"

"No." Jack confessed. He looked at the lake, "No, I don't."

"What was your name?" Pippa asked. She sat immediately to his right, with her ankles tucked in beside her, clinging to them with one hand and leaning on the other, away from him.

"Jackson Overland."

Her head tilted a little, "And your sister?"

"Emily Overland. My mother's name was Rosalie."

Jamie got to the true grit of the story. He was to Jack's immediate left. He leaned in eagerly, brown eyes glowing, "But how did you _die_?"

Pippa frowned at him, but did not say a word about it, because she, too, was interested in how Jack had died, so she made sure her mittens were pulled on, and she scooted closer to him in the snow.

"Well, when I was eighteen, and the snows had just started falling, and the lake had just frozen, Emily and I decided to go ice-skating..." he looked in the direction of his old house. He had never thought to look for it before. Suddenly distracted, he stood up.

"Hey!" Jamie shouted, grabbing his sleeve.

Jack kept walking, "Oh, right, anyway, we decided to go ice skating. It was not particularly cold that day, not freezing, I mean—so, not cold enough for the ice to stay thick. We did not realize it was thawing out so quickly. When she paused for just a second—it was just the wrong spot. The ice cracked."

They drew in closer, and Jamie gripped his wrist tighter. Jack distanced himself from the memory. It was just a tumble of emotions. He had died and saved her life—but even if she had died and he had lived, he never would have seen her again, ever. Facing immortality without family seemed empty, and when he thought about that he was sad and angry, but proud of himself for how he had handled the situation and how he had saved her life.

"So I told her to keep calm and still, and I managed to get her to safety, but when that happened, _I_ found myself on thin ice, and it cracked. The shock knocked me out, and then the water killed me."

This should be where his house was.

No one asked why Jack had come this way. They just let him be, a man with his memories, standing before the skeleton of a house, mostly buried in snow. He took a few steps forward and prodded it with his staff. It had fallen into ruin some time ago. It was gone now.

"So _that's_ where that old urban legend came from!" Caleb said, a light bulb clicking in his head.

"Huh?"

His twin picked up the thread. "Oh, yeah. Long ago, two kids went out to the lake to ice skate. The ice was too thin, and so one of them fell in, by the time the second one had brought help, he had already been in for too long and had drowned. The lake froze over again, and when spring came, the fish had eaten even his bones." He paused for effect, Jack did not interrupt. His voice changed entirely, "And they say, when the ice is too thin, you can see his face beneath the ice, warning you away from his watery grave."

"Okay, that's creepy."

"Well, not really—he's warning you away from death, so, he's actually being kind of nice."

"But, it's still creepy."

"Okay, fine. It's creepy."

Jack poked around the mounds of snow in the remains of his old house. Using what was left of the walls, he could trace the outlines of the rooms. His bed had been where he was standing right now, and he felt a sudden yearn for it, he wanted—and it was the strangest thing—to run to his mother and cry about the fact that everyone he had known in life was now dead, and he had completely forgotten about them. It was very strange.

He was still in denial about the fact that he had no bed at home to curl up in, and no mother to cry to.

He blinked away a few burning tears in his eyes.

"Jack! Jack!"

Jack turned to see that they had congregated around him once more. He masked the pain, "What is it?"

It was Cupcake who demanded his attention first, and Cupcake who spoke. "Is Bloody Mary real?"

"Who?"

"She's an urban legend—if you say her name three times in front of a mirror, she'll appear. Is she real?"

"No, of course not!" Jack was actually not sure. "Well, I've never met her." He corrected himself, turning away from where his bed used to sit, "That's not to say she's not real—don't test it, anyway."

Cupcake laughed, batted at Clyde and said, "Told you."

"He didn't answer at all! He didn't even know about her!" he replied, "That does not count."

Jack tuned them out again, and continued to walk around the long-gone ruins of his house, while they debated the possibility of Bloody Mary, because if Jack Frost was real, and Santa Clause was real, and the Tooth Fairy, and the Sandman, and Pitch, and because _not only_ was the Easter Bunny real, but he was eight feet tall and spoke with an Australian accent, then Bloody Mary was not all that far-fetched.

And you know what? They had a point. When they put it that way, Bloody Mary was not all that far-fetched, and that worried him. He looked towards them and ordered, very seriously, "Don't try to summon Bloody Mary. Ever."

They laughed again, not at him, just at the idea—that old Mary was surely real.

"What about the hook-hand."

"Captain Hook?"

"No, no, the Hook Hand. The serial killer."

"Oh, _that one_."

"No, I don't think he's real." Pippa said, That one involves a car—too modern."

"But what about _Bigfoot?"_

Jack started to listen again, just in time for that, and he said, "Maybe they're all just seeing Bunny. He does have big feet."

Jamie frowned, "The Easter Bunny never attacked hikers, Jack."

Jack chuckled to himself, because it was not true, but that did not stop him from envisioning it—Bunnymund going into a frenzy and mauling hikers, that is. He went back to searching the remains of his house with a lighter heart, just very briefly. He did not know what, precisely, he was searching for. It was probably nothing, at least—nothing specific. Just some memento. He got lost in his own thoughts again, and he wondered why he had not come by sooner. He had thought about it a few times, he had just been too scared to do it. Doing it would make him admit to himself that they were truly gone.

But even now that he was here, he could not admit it to himself. He could immerse himself in the truth, but he could hardly even acknowledge it. What was wrong with him?

His family was _dead_. He was poking around the ruins of their old house. It was three hundred years ago. Along with the sinking suspicion that he had been someone looming over him for three hundred years, there had also been the knowledge that—if it were true—whoever he had shared that life with was long gone. Three hundred years, he had known this.

Why was there this intense screaming in his heart, then? This strong denial of everything? Like he was in a dream and trying to make sense of everything, but it was all fluttering away. His head was crowded with thoughts, but it all felt so empty and sound proof, like snow.

This was where Emily's bed had been. Jack remembered that she had a trunk to keep the little things of personal value in. Schoolbooks, and old trinkets and toys and one single journal, which she wrote in every night. Jack did not take the time to keep one, which is why Emily had gotten it, and not him. He raised his staff and drove it into the ground above where he last remembered it being, expecting to hear a hollow _thunk!_ if the trunk had been buried. He just heard the squeaking crunch of the snow, and then the dirt.

"Slenderman was created online!"

"But what about all those old tales that are _like_ Slenderman?"

"Stop it, you're giving me the creeps."

"Yeah, man, we're in the woods. Time and place."

Jack turned around to look at them. They looked to be just fine, except for the fact that Jamie was going on about this character named, 'Slenderman' and while he was enjoying every second of it, his peers were not. "He can always be found in woods, just like these."

Monty shuddered and looked around.

Jack got curious, "Wait, who's Slenderman?"

"Only the coolest urban legend _ever_!" Jamie said excitedly, "He's a tall, skinny faceless man in a black suit and red tie. He stalks kids and takes them away forever—no one ever sees them again! No one really knows how he chooses his victims, but if you think about him too much, you're basically inviting him to stalk you, and he'll keep doing so, gradually unnerving you until you're sick with fear."

"That does not sound very _cool_." Jack cut him off, "That sounds worse than Pitch—and Pitch is a big deal."

Jamie laughed. Monty asked, "But he's not real, right, Jack? He's not even real so Jamie can shut up, right?"

"Don't worry!" Jack replied, "I've been around three hundred years and I've never seen nor heard of any Slenderman—I've been in every forest on the planet, and I haven't seen him."

But, then again, he had never been looking. All of them, except for Jamie, looked too freaked out to stay in the woods, particularly Monty. And Jack tried very hard not to make the leap in logic that if _he_ were real, this Slenderman could be real, too. Or Bloody Mary. Pitch was bad enough, Jack reminded himself, we don't need anything worse than him.

Jack felt a cold chill trace up his neck. He turned around, and thought he saw, very briefly, a tall man amongst the trees. He jumped back in shock, and blinked, and the vision was gone.

"Did you see him?" Jamie demanded, ecstatic, "Jack did you just see him?"

"No." Jack said, "No I didn't see anything."

They trudged back to the clearing, then on to the lake, and by that time they had wasted a good chunk of the afternoon, so they went through the sparse trees and down the hill to the street that Jamie lived on. Once Jack and seen them to the haven of their home town, he flew away and looked out over the woods. His eyes were not too sharp—not by a longshot—and so not seeing anything was not actually much of a comfort.

He flew over it, still looking, but he did not know why. He was not real, and if he had been, North and the Guardians would have taken care of him—stealing away children? The guardians would never let that slide. Jack would never let that slide. And, by Jamie's own words, he would be on Slenderman's list. Thinking about something like that at all was too much.

And threatening Jamie was definitely something Jack would never let slide.

"But he's not real." He muttered, mostly to himself, but this was a feeble reassurance. He knew the power of belief—and if enough people believed, who was to say Slenderman would not simply spring into existence? Jack did not know—and, truth be told, he did not _want_ to know. But if anyone knew, it would be North. He had to go see him, he was a guardian, and any potential threat had to be shared, right?

"Wind." He turned his face to the south, "Take me to Santoff Claussen."

The wind picked up and then howled, and caught him, pushing him with incredible speed to the North Pole, to Santoff Claussen. Even if North had never heard of Slenderman, someone there must have. They had a great many things there, a library, and even then, there was a pub, which was usually filled with spirits with stories to tell. The wind deposited him on the top of the large evergreen tree, all gussied up for Christmas—but thanksgiving was yet to pass.

He sat, perched on the tree, and looked down at the people milling around below him, minor spirits and major ones, interspersed with them were a great many humans, each one loved their job, and their home town, and a great many of them happened to be named William.

It was located a few miles to the west of North's workshop, down the mountainside—so very few mortals actually saw North's workshop, because few could manage the climb. Sure, they could see it. In the morning it's shadow hung over the town proudly, sometimes it peeked out from behind the clouds, but the only ones that could scale the mountain were the Yeti, good luck getting one to carry you. People did not go up, the Yeti came _down._ There was a much-needed sporting-gear store that had nothing but winter goods, and right now it was advertising coats, because Santoff Claussen had three seasons: Cold with no night, Cold, and Cold with no sun.

It was just _cold_ now, with the sun starting to show from behind North's workshop. Jack pointed out the pub to himself, and the library, which looked to be closed for the moment, or at least dark, but in the shadow, everything was dark. He saw the groundhog heading out of the pub and the leprechaun heading in, and today he saw more ice golems than normal. Jack grinned. The ice golems seemed to always try to chase him down. Like the Yeti, they simply had an inherent hate of him. If North managed to chase off his fears—which he most likely would—then Jack would waste a day getting his spirits up avoiding them. He looked up the mountain to North's house.


	2. Chapter 2

Matchsticks.

Disclaimed.

* * *

Chapter two:

The things inside North's workshop never ceased to amaze Jack. The yeti alone were a marvel, the way they moved about, large and imposing, and yet, never making a noise. They worked tirelessly, meticulously, beefy fingers handling even the most delicate stitch work. The elves ran about, speaking a language entirely of squeals. When he was not causing snow days or freezing windows and plants, or bringing in a cold front, Jack enjoyed wandering through North's workshop, watching the Yeti make toy after detailed toy, and watching the elves do... whatever it is they do. He was never unwelcome now that he was a guardian.

He should drop in on Bunnymund more often, really, to make up for all of those Easters he ruined, but the Warren was not as fun. It was interesting to watch the eggs march, but it was too organized. This was chaos and fun, with marvels everywhere he turned, fascinating toys being made right and left; so many things to look at.

He had left his staff at the door—because Phil would have broken his arms if he had not—so he meandered around with his hands in his pocket, twiddling his thumbs and passing out off-hand complements, which all of the yeti seemed to disregard because he was not their boss. In fact, he could have sworn he saw one begin to work _harder_ after Jack had told him he was going a good job. He walked around again, and said, "Keep up the good work!" and then the already furrowed brows furrowed more and the eyes squinted.

Jack came round again, "Doin' good there!"

He huffed, squinted more, and grabbed his wrist to steady it.

Jack came round again, "Doin' good there."

He slowed his pace to a crawl.

Jack came round again, "Doin' go—"

The yeti threw an already-completed toy plane at him. Jack laughed, ducked down, and watched the plane loop over his head, once, twice, a third time. The third loop became a beautiful arch, where the plane turned over and over in the air as it descended, crossing over the globe before, coming to rest in front of Jack's toes. He picked it up and threw it again, where it completed its series of loops, and seemed to go as high as it could. Once it looped five times before coming down again by zipping to the left and then to the right quickly, back and forth until it landed obediently in his open hands.

He went along like this, throwing the toy plane—he felt no reason to return it, he _had_ been assaulted with it, after all—into the air, and watching it cut patterns on the drafts from the cold outside and the warmth from the fires, until he was out of the workshop, had walked across the great hall, and had gone to the stables. The reindeer did not take too kindly to him throwing a plane around, but he did it anyway, until it crashed into the antlers of Rudolph himself. The deer bowed his head, shook his antlers until the plane fell out, and then kicked it with his back hoof towards Jack.

It flew upwards in a brilliant vertical spiral, arched again, and landed on the deer's muzzle. He shorted, and his nose lit up in frustration. He shook it off again and then stomped on it a few times, and kicked the remains back to Jack. Jack frowned, and he grumbled, a little bitter, a little joking, "No _wonder_ they never let you join in the reindeer games."

Rudolph just glared at him.

Jack tossed the remains into the waste bin and went back to the workshop, determined to get another, even if he had to steal it. Unfortunately, the word of his actions must have spread, because each yeti stopped working and gave him the eye the moment he was close enough. He went back to the yeti working on the toy planes, who gave him the meanest glare Jack could imagine, and that glare intensified when Jack walked away with a new-new plane, and went back to tossing it up.

This one was just not as spectacular as the first. It had a one-in-four chance of _not_ coming back to him, and on that chance one-in-fourth time, it took a dive across the open shaft, dinged off the globe and vanished two floors above him. Disappointed, Jack followed it, only to think to himself that it must have vanished. He got down on his hands and knees. It had skidded under a low shelf an unused work bench, tucked away from the din. The space between it and the floor was just big enough for Jack to reach under and grab it. He pressed himself against the floor and slipped his hand in the nook.

 _Thunk-thunk._ Jack ignored the sound. It must have come from another part of the workshop. He closed his eyes, pressed his cheek flush against the floor. His long fingers stretching blindly. The brushed the tail-end of the plane, pushing it beyond his reach.

 _Thunk_. It was softer this time. Jack flicked his wrist in the little space he had. The plane shot upwards, arching back towards him to land on the work desk.

 _Thunk. Thunk._

The plane slipped off, hit his cheek as he rolled onto his back.

He caught sight of motion out of the corner of his eye.

He had thought it was a doll at first, because she was sitting with a bunch of _other_ dolls on the work bench, but the motion he had noticed had been her shiny black boots swinging back and forth, two feet above his head. She was also quite a bit _bigger_ than the other dolls on the workbench. She looked down at him and tilted her head. He picked himself up, stooped down to pick up the toy plane again. She was about seven, maybe eight years old, with dark hair in perfect spiral curls sticking out from under a white fur cloche, blue eyes and a little crease on her button nose.

"Hey there, I'm Jack Frost, what's your name?"

She did not respond.

"Come on, your _name_!" he insisted with a little chuckle.

There was another pause, and then she held and extended finger to her chest and said, "Millie."

Jack, satisfied with that, leaned back a little and crossed his arms, "I suppose you get first choice of all the toys, huh?"

She looked towards the main part of the workshop, and pursed her lips. They were pale. She was pale. In the light, she looked very sickly, but Jack doubted _sickly_ was something spirits worried about. he had never been sick a day in his life. Millie did not answer his question. Jack shrugged.

"Come on," he lifted her off the workbench and set her on her feet, "This place is too busy for someone your size. You might get wrapped up in a box." He said. He took her hand and noticed that there was something strange about the texture of her fingers. He turned it over. The tips of her fingers were burned, as if she had tried to pinch a candle out without really knowing how it was done, and the skin was warm, as if it had been recent. Jack chuckled and said, "Let's get some ice on that." He covered his fingers with ice, tugged his sleeve over his hand, and took hold of her again, "And you'll know better next time, right?"

She did not say a word.

He walked with her back to the doorway, with the plane in one hand and her hand in the other, until he spotted North (who really owed him an explanation of why he _did not_ tell Jack about this kid!) and he changed course to talk to him.

"I don't like them. Make the dresses white." North was saying to a yeti. The Yeti looked at neatly organized display of ballerina dolls in pink dresses and growled.

"I think they look fine in pink." Jack butted in.

North turned around with a bright smile, the one that was holding back a booming laugh, but then his face changed to confusion, and then his eyes followed the slightly slouched line of his shoulder down his arm to the hand covered in ice and then to Millie.

"Never told me you had a daughter." Jack said, "Been practically a year, why didn't you say something?"

North's face went slightly blank, only his eyes moved, He looked back at Jack, slowly, and then at the girl again quickly, like he thought he would not notice. "Is—Is not my daughter."

"Okay." Jack grinned at her, gave her shoulder a little shake, and asked, "Where do you live? Let's get you home."

"She... lives here."

He looked back up at North, "Oh?"

"She is spirit." He replied, "For about two hundred and ninety years."

"Spirit of what?"

North shrugged, "You don't need to put ice on her burns." he added, "She has always had them."

Jack let go of her hand and let the ice on his fingers vanish, "She's allowed to hang around the work shop?"

"Are you kidding? She is best little product tester." North took two dolls, one in a newly completed white dress, and one in a pink dress and held them up in front of her. She looked from one to the other, and then pointed to the white dressed doll and said something decisive and profound that Jack could not understand, but North understood completely.

"Millie is right." North said, he returned both dolls to the stand, "All one color is too dull."

The Yeti looked even _more_ frustrated. North said something to Millie in what was probably choppy Danish, hoisted her onto his broad shoulder and took her on a round though the workshop, holding onto her every word. She knew one or two words of English, and perhaps a little Russian, but she was very fluent in Danish, as she easily demonstrated when she went by a pile of defects made by well-meaning elves. She pointed at a bear with mismatched eyes and began prattling on like it was the most incredible thing she had ever seen.

North chuckled. He handed it to her, and very quickly set her down and backed away with a quick pat to her head. He must have told her she could keep it, because she smiled with delight and hugged it tightly.

And then she burst into flames.

Jack sputtered and flung himself backwards, "Wh—wha—GAH!"

North replied, a little too casual for Jack's liking, "Has nasty habit of self-immolation. Very combustible."

Jack watched the fire dance over her, making her curls flutter, she stretched out her hand and watched them, as if it was something she never got tired of seeing.

"Happens all the time." North told him, "Nothing to worry little head with. Shame her toys never survive."

Millie looked down at a pile of ashes at her feet and frowned, not in sadness, but just in a kind of resignation. She took a deep breath and sighed. A little spurt of fire came from her lips. Jack danced back, horrified.

"I make flame-resistant mismatched bear."

North walked away.

Jack was not capable of handling this situation calmly. He looked around for a blanket to smother the flames, but finding none, stripped off his jacket and attempted to use that. It proved useless. He began to look for a bucket of water, and force out a few words that vaguely resembled, "Please help, she's on fire!"

No one seemed to pay it any mind.

He realized that if he wanted water, he would have to make it himself. He scrambled for his staff by the door, about twenty feet away, and ran back to Millie, who was still a small pillar of fire. He made it snow above her head. It turned to steam before it could land. He made it snow a little more, the water hissed and evaporated to nothing. He made an entire snowdrift appear and hover in the air, and let it fall. All that remained was a mound of white for a moment, and then her head popped out, looking just as sickly-but-well as it had been before she had burst into flames. The rest of the snow turned into water, then evaporated. Millie nudged the ashes with her toe and sighed again. She uncovered two melted button eyes.

Jack was still speechless. Hastily, he pulled his jacket on, but by the time his head had popped into the hood and he could see the place she had been standing, there were only two little elves sweeping up the ashes. He jumped over them and hovered above the chaos of the workshop, but he could not see her. He dropped back to the floor in front of the door and left, going through the great hall again, his toy plane quite forgotten. He looked around and muttered to himself, "She can't have gone too far, right?"

Jack knew there was not much point in trying to find a girl that did not want to be found. Kids knew how to hide when they wanted to hide. He gave up, flipped his cane over his shoulder with a dramatic flourish, swung his foot in a wide arch and turned around on his toes and marched straight to the front door, whistling a little tune. He exited the front door, stood on the wide porch for a moment, and pressed his ear against the door, trying to listen. He was constantly distracted by what sounded like reindeer's hooves crunching in the snow very fast, and harness bells jingling with a great foray, and then it all vanished very suddenly.

He heard nothing. No tell-tale patter of shiny black boots on the floor. Jack cracked opened the door again and peered through the gap. She had not shown herself. Frustrated now (the Guardian of Fun could not be seen loosing a game) Jack swung the door wide, leaned against the knob, and frowned into the room. He went back to his foggy memories, back to his sister. What had he done to find her when she hid?

Nothing, he remembered, nearly palming himself in the forehead it came back so easily, she was _remarkably good_ at hide and seek.

North came wandering through another bear with mis-matched eyes clumsily resting on one arm, he was calling, "Millie! Oh, Millie!"

Jack drummed his fingers on his staff and was about to comb through the house when he heard a sudden chime of bells and something horrendously _warm_ and half-melted hit the back of his head, where it became all melted, splashed down his back, slicked down his hair, and pelted out a sharp "Ngyaah!" Very much like the chain reaction in a Newton's cradle, this sharp "Ngyaah!" hit North, who turned abruptly, and exclaimed a brief, "Ah!" which hit Jack and sent him spinning around, spluttering, staff poised at the ready, but all he saw was a thick, downy blanket of white.

He spluttered a bit more, felt the ice firmly caked into his hair, and demanded of North, "HOW?"

"She can't throw snowballs. They melt in midair, more like water balloons. Obviously freeze when they hit you."

"WHY?!" Jack demanded.

North just shrugged, handed him the flame-retardant bear, and trotted back to his workshop.

Jack turned back to the blanket of snow. He saw a deer's shadow pass over it, bobbing up and down on the ripples in the snow like the waves on the sea. It dipped down quickly, and Jack saw that on its back, clinging to one antler, was a Millie. She scooped up a handful of snow and the deer doubled back with a quick quarter circle. As she made her return, Jack saw a quickly melting pellet of snow, then icy slush, then water, making an arch right for his head, which he froze in mid-air, "Ha!"

It continued on its merry way and nailed him square in the jaw.

"Gah!"

Jack, bear held in the bend of his elbow, stalked forward in to the snow and looked up at the reindeer. Millie saw him, looked right at him, and began to circle him, sizing him up. He stopped glaring firmly at her to test the feel of his jaw. It was tender to the touch, not entirely swollen, not bruised, but maybe getting there. He looked back up at the girl, who was still circling him.

"Mille!" he said firmly.

She widened her circle.

He held up the bear as an attempted peace-offering. She narrowed her eyes and leaned forward to get a better look.

"Now come down here."

She understood tone, but not the words. He would readily admit that he had sounded upset. He was upset. She turned the reindeer around and flew off. Jack huffed and slouched. He glared at the flame-proof bear, and it just gave him the same wide-but-mismatched-eyed smile he gave everyone. It was more psychotic than encouraging.

He let the wind carry him after the reindeer. He chased them far away from North workshop, down the mountain side to Santoff Claussen. The reindeer bounded off rooftops, cleared the top of the giant evergreen in the center of town, and then plummeted downwards, nearly using the heads of the people that walked down the street there to regain height. It was not long before he started to have fun again. He cut corners, made ramps to stop them, but at every turn that deer was sharper, at ever obstacle he overcame it. He looked back to give him a snide glance, and his nose flashed red audaciously. It was enough to slow him down a bit.

She had _riding privileges_? For _Rudolph?_

Jack accepted the reindeer's unspoken challenge. Once out the outskirts of the town, Millie scooped up another handful of snow and threw it at him, he dodged it as it melted (no reason to freeze it again) and waited until it was less of a mass and more of a stream before freezing it into snowflakes once again. Millie slowed Rudolph down to witness the transition and Jack used that opening to catch up with them and hold the bear up for her to see.

He had expected her to pull the deer short with delight, but she reached for it, and he, working from playful habit, pulled it back before she could touch it. She followed, it, arm out stretched, and Jack thought of it before it actually happened.

She slipped off of Rudolph's back and plummeted downwards, right above a deep cut in the mountain range. Jack swore softly to himself. Rudolph kicked Jack with his back hooves while diving downwards at a dizzying angle. Jack following quickly, straightening himself out and holding his crook close to him, the bear was not far behind that. Tumbling and cartwheeling, no care to the real purpose behind the sudden need to free-fall.

The plane fluttered out of his pocket, shot away, carried by their slip stream out of the gorge and far, far away.

Jack caught up with her first. They still had a great deal of distance to cover, "It's going to be alright." He tried to say, but the air rushing past stopped him. Instead, he just grabbed her by the back of the collar and pulled her close, holding out the staff and bringing them to a screeching halt in midair. Unfortunately, he missed catching the bear as it tumbled past. Millie did not seem to notice it, or the rush of Rudolph diving past in a valiant effort to save the bear.

The fall would not have killed her, Jack knew that, but it did not make the ordeal any less terrifying. He sat down with her on the first level surface he could find and rocked her until she stopped shaking.

He was shaking.

He missed his little sister.

He had been to Burgess. He had felt the pain of loss he should have felt three hundred years ago, but never before had he felt anything this intense. Yeah, there were lots of kids around the world that made up for that feeling, but right now, he just wanted her. He had to let those kids be with their families, eventually, he had to let them grow up.

He wanted Emily back. He wanted Mom back, too, but not as much as he wanted his sister.

"I've got you."

Rudolph joined them on the ledge, bearing the sad remains of the second teddy bear in his antlers. He had scraped it up, like one might scrape up week-old road kill. Jack tried to set Millie onto his back again, but she refused to let him go. He carried her back to Santoff Claussen, and by the time he reached the workshop, she had stopped crying, and was looking around again, quite used to the change of pace from his side from Rudolph's back. They came in via the stables, and North was making sure all of his reindeer were in good health.

When he saw what remained of the teddy bear—stuffing falling into the snow in little clumps like entrails—North frowned and glared at Jack. It was almost hurtful how he knew it was his fault. The large man picked it out of the reindeer's antlers and brandished it in his face. Millie was heartbroken by this callous display, "I can no make impact-proof bear!"

North left in a huff—doubtless to fix the bear, leaving Jack and Millie to their own devices. She was possessed with the need to be set down immediately. He struggled to set her down easy, but the effort was still very clumsy, and she tumbled down to the trodden snow, winding up on all fours.

A new understanding forged between himself and Rudolph, he let the reindeer into his stall and gave his muzzle a wary pat, picking a little more stuffing out of his antlers. When he looked back at Millie, she had zipped away and vanished. Jack huffed in frustration, then let it go. Millie had spent more time here than he had. She knew her way around, and she probably knew what was dangerous.

He found Millie and North chatting on the stairs. North was stitching the bear back up, presumably to stuff it, there was a pile of fresh fluff on his other side. They were speaking about something, presumably something nice, because Millie had a huge smile plastered on her face.

They both looked at him and she fell silent abruptly, because she was not stupid. She knew perfectly well Jack could not understand a word that came out of her mouth. She knew it. She could insult him to his face, and as long as she was smiling sweetly, North would be the only one to know.

And he felt left out.

He was well aware of the feeling, being left out. Over the past three hundred years, he had become quite familiar with it, that persistent weight of loneliness. North looked away from Jack to Millie, then back at Jack. His eyes sparkled—the way they always did.

"You still want family, no?" North said knowingly, "Have little sister again?"

He knew how to cut him to the quick. Jack's eyes shifted, "Oh, well, I don't really... That is, I... I have an entire world of kids, I'm the Guardian of Fun...I mean, _Jamie."_

North stated the obvious, "Jamie will not be a child forever."

He looked away, out to the snowy landscape. "Yeah."

He felt a tug at his staff, then a hiss and the feel of warm steam. Then boiling steam. Then he smelled something burning. Her jerked his staff away, dragging Millie with it and leaving her sprawled on the floor in front of him.

"Please don't touch this." He pointed to the staff and shook his head. He realized it was still smoldering. He smothered the embers with his hand, freezing them. It repaired itself. He reiterated, "No."

She picked herself up and dusted her front and knees off, though there was no need. The floor was perfectly clean stone. Jack grinned, squatted down in front of her. She smiled cheerfully, and he could not help it. He pinched the tip of her nose, and pulled his hand away very quickly, and said something he had missed saying very much.

"Got your nose!"

* * *

Yeah, one guess as to who Millie really is. Title is Matchsticks. Burns on fingers. Speaks Danish. Yeah, pretty obvious.


	3. Chapter 3

Matchsticks

(Disclaimed.)

* * *

Chapter Three:

"Do we know why Manny chose her?"

"Well..."

Jack paused, mid bite. North looked him right in the eye and lied.

"No."

They were eating soft ginger cookies around his work bench in his private workshop, Millie's feet swung casually, and on occasion, Jack heard her foot clunk against the lower shelf. They could hear the hub-bub below them drifting up through the slats in the floor and the cracks in the interior windows and under the door. Millie rested her chin on the head of her recently-fixed bear, and Jack's not-as-perfect-as-the first plane rested, tilted on one wing, next to the ice models of North's new toys.

The fact that Manny had given no one any reason did not really mean he did not have a plan for her—Jack had been given no reason, after all. He looked at Millie, who seemed just fine with the way things were, and he asked, "Do you think she'll ever be a guardian?"

"No." North looked at her and his eyes squinted with a fond grin. She grinned back, "But lots of spirits are not guardians."

"What is she a spirit of, then?"

North shrugged, "Not quite sure, yet."

Jack, knowing that had had gotten the polite questions out of the way, dove into the heart of the matter, "How did she die?"

"I don't know."

North was a terrible liar, and he was lying through his teeth right now. Jack was stunned. North was _lying._ It was unfathomable, but it was written all over his jolly face. He _did_ know how Millie had died. No amount of crows feet or wide-eyed wonder could change that. Jack wanted to press the subject, but he could think of a very good reason why North would not talk about her death. She was in the room. She probably understood a handful of English—enough to grasp what they were talking about. She was so young, she might not even realize she was dead! Jack was having a hard time coming to terms with his own death, and he was an almost an adult.

Maybe she was not dead? 'A spirit' and 'dead' were terms that only occasionally overlapped—but, of course, if she had not died, North would have said so.

So he did not press it. He did not ask how long ago it had been, or where, exactly, she had been turned. The question hung there, though, and it made North uncomfortable. That struck Jack as odd, it took a lot to make North uneasy, and that just made him more curious. North, on edge?

Because he asked about Millie's death? Just that? Jack took the last bite of his ginger cookie and reached for a second one. While he chewed over the scene before him and the flavors of sugar, vanilla and ginger in his mouth, he tried to think of a way to take the subject away from Millie. She was the only person in the room still at ease. North was obviously flustered, and that made Jack uneasy himself.

He considered bringing up his _first_ question, have it out in the open before North got curious and asked him what he was doing here in the first place—he considered asking about Slenderman, but part of him did not _want_ the subject changed. The same part of him was afraid the answer would be _'Oh, yes. He's very real. He's very, very evil. I would say kill on sight but—ha ha. Is unkillable.'_

So really, it was _all_ of him. _All_ of him wanted to avoid that subject.

Besides, he had struck something, maybe something big, or perhaps very small, but something that North wanted to hide. Finding out was just one big game, right? And that was more fun than some story that was spawned on the internet. Jack hardly knew what the internet _was_ , anyway.

He looked at Millie again; she was adjusting a curl. She saw him watching and she grinned. The curiosity was overwhelming him now. He could not stand not knowing. The gears in his mind turned slowly, and it did not take long for him to figure out what he needed to do. He _did_ love games.

"Do you think I should go see Tooth?"

North may have just nearly choked on the last crumb of cookie. Jack was not sure—he recovered very quickly, and had been around for quite a long time, long enough to hide shock. Millie jumped at bit in her seat, and Jack felt a thrill of discovery. He was hitting on a nerve. Maybe North had already figured out what he was planning to do. Maybe he would warn Tooth. But Jack had hit a nerve, and that was all that mattered.

"W-why?"

"Learn some Danish." He shrugged, years of playing tricks had made him a fantastic actor, though he had to fight hard to keep the smug look off his face. "She's an amazing linguist."

That was not why. He wanted to see Millie's memories.

North wanted to disagree. Oh, he wanted to dissuade him. He wanted too—but kicking the ant hill would just reveal... something. The tiny garnets of truth buried below. Jack was never good at metaphors.

North looked choked. "G-good plan."

He thanked North for the snack, promised he would drop by soon, and took his staff from where it leaned by the door. He risked patting Millie on the head. It was uncomfortably warm. Maybe he was just cold.

The winds took him to the fairer South quickly, so fast that he felt whiplash and the bite of too quick a temperature change. He felt out of place in Toothiana's gold and coral palace and it's perpetual summer weather. It was warm and humid. He felt clammy and washed out. Then the little fairies surrounded him and he felt crowded. The disturbance in order caught Tooth's attention and she turned abruptly, "Jack? Is that you?"

She gracefully fluttered down to him, smiling daintily and landing smoothly before him, "How are you?"

"Good enough." He said, and then he lied. "North said you were the Guardian to come too."

"For what?" she tilted her head and fluttered her feathery lashes.

"Danish lessons." Jack answered.

Not that was not _exactly_ how it happened, but she would probably suspect less if he said it was.

"Oh?" she smiled at first, and then a slow realization came over her, " _Ooooooh...!"_

"What?"

"W-well I can't really... That is to say, Jack, I don't have time to teach you. I have books on the subject, but those are not the best teachers." She looked like she did not want to ask for fear the answer was no, "This is for... Millie?"

"Yeah."

She relaxed at bit, but strangely enough managed to become more tense, like knowing was a relief, but the knowledge itself was bad. She smiled again and motioned for him to follow her. Deep in the palace, she had a comprehensive library, books from every nation, beautiful illuminated manuscripts. She set him down at a desk and hovered about, tossing books over her shoulder. Not a single on hit anything but the desk before him. _Basics of Danish. Danish 101. Danish for Dummies._ Then, she presented him with something that made him feel _real_ special. A set of cassette tapes and CD's, relics of Demark's current and past stars, and a combination cd and tape player.

"You sure you want to put these near me? I don't think ice is great for electronics." He prodded a speaker with a long, cold finger.

She laughed genuinely, "I always used to use the memories of children to—" She covered her mouth, "Oh! Oh that's not a good idea!"

"Why not?"

She laughed awkwardly, "Well, you might find Millie's—I mean, no!" She caught herself too late and cringed.

He was practically in a _minefield._

"You have her teeth!?" Jack exclaimed, feigning surprise. "Of course you would! You've got everyone's teeth!"

Her face was frozen in a smile.

"Will you give them to me?" he tried to be direct, "So I can see?"

"Jack..." she said though her teeth, her brow pinched. She resigned herself and her frozen smile melted into a reluctant frown. "I'm not going to give you her teeth."

"Why not?"

"Because..." her eyes shifted, "I'm just... _not."_

Jack tried again, "Why _not_?"

"Cases like Millie are just cases... We _don't_ talk about."

"Cases?" He tilted his head. That was a strange word for her to use—cases.

She looked beyond him, then upwards, and with a heavy sigh she flew away from him, not with any real purpose. If she were walking, he would say she was dragging her feet. She drifted around like she had a weight on her shoulders she was struggling to balance. She went so slowly and so reluctantly that Jack gave up flying after her, and just walked on foot.

They left her archive of books and went on to her archive of teeth, the tower for Europe, specifically. They stopped at the first floor, not very far into archive at all. She turned to face him, she said the next words with lead on her tongue—it was a carefully planned speech.

"As guardians, we protect children, but sometimes, there are things not even we can stop." She reached to the left and a box popped from the wall, "Charlie underwent three rounds of chemotherapy." She opened the box. Some of the teeth were fine, perfect even, some of the others were marked with decay. The set was incomplete. "He died before he lost his last baby tooth."

She brushed her fingers over a few nearby faces, "Alvin just recovered from Leukemia, but it's left his growth stunted. Samantha suffered severe brain damage because of an aneurysm; she could have been such a smart girl—now she cannot keep the memories we've stored here."

She put Charlie's box back in the wall, flew up and hovered around for a bit before looking down at him. He gave her a pair of subtle puppy-dog eyes. She bit her lip and flew off in another direction, much faster this time. Jack waited for her—she had zipped off too fast to follow. He waited a long time for her to return, a very long time, and eventually, curiosity got the better of him. He raised himself from the ground and followed her. The towers were mazes, each one, with a different layout for every floor—no two were alike in the slightest.

He found her several floors up in a corner that maybe no one liked to talk about. It was dark and dusty. She had a box in her hand and was staring at it, carefully considering her choices. She had gone back several generations, and was hovering there, staring at the face and stroking the lid comfortingly.

She looked at him, and then dropped back down; the lead was gone from her voice, but she was no more relaxed or happy. "Some accidental tooth losses are caused by freak sledding accidents;" she managed a smile, it dropped at once, "tumbles down the stairs, landing wrong when jumping off a swing. Sometimes, Jack, they aren't." she opened this box. The teeth inside looked fair enough, "This poor girl lost three teeth because her grandfather hit her. See how this one's split right down the middle? The Fairy I sent had to remove the other half in her sleep." She held the tooth in the palm of her hand and her eyes misted over, growing a little red at her lower lids. She put the tooth back, "You should have seen how skinny she was. She sold matches in the street to earn money, just before Christmas..." Tooth stroked the box sadly, lost in thought, and then she blinked, looked at him again, and said tersely, "We _don't_ like to talk about stories like this."

She closed it abruptly and flew up, returning it to the wall. Rubbing her eyes daintily, she fluttered down to where Jack was standing, "Go, Jack. I have work to do."

Jack looked up at the wall. Could he find this little corner again? Tooth followed his glance, shifted slightly, blocking his view, as if it could keep him from returning. "How did my sister die?"

"I don't know." Tooth confessed, "She lived well past childhood, but you can see her childhood, if you like."

"But not Millie's?"

"That's right." She smiled, forcibly turned him around, and flew, pushing him through the air, back to the library. "Read the books, listen to the tapes. I will come and check on you when I have a moment and teach you a little bit. But you have to _promise me_ you will not look at Millie's memories. They are private, Jack."

"Oh, yeah." He nodded vigorously, "Sure, promise."

She looked him over with a little pout, and sent a small legion of about ten fairies to supervise him. With a warning glance, her fingers switching from her eyes to his, she flew away.

The first thing he did was look for Millie's teeth.

He search and searched until he found the dark, dusty corner, the exact same spot Tooth had been forlornly hovering. There, plain as day, was Millie's round face on the box. "Found you!"

He reached for it.

Babytooth pecked his hand.

"Ouch!"

It was not lethal, it did not even beak the skin, but it still hurt. Mostly the betrayal. He had thought Babytooth would be a little more in his corner. He cupped his hand and shooed her away, then reached for the box again.

The remaining nine dive-bombed his face and neck, and Babytooth attacked his palm, his wrist, and the back of his hand until he flew away. They pursued him out of Europe's tower, all the way out of the palace, mercilessly pricking him with their little beaks, and mirroring his movements so he could not come back in.

It would not be his last broken promise to Tooth.

He tried Bunnymund next.

He found the bunny in his Warren, wearing a green apron and mixing a large bowl of chocolate that he was very carefully marbling a bright orange flavor into. There was a cooling tray of already prepared strawberry chocolate. The entire kitchen of the Warren was a veritable chocolate shrine, with a large vat of warm, melted chocolate, keeping molten and fresh in a double-boiler big enough to cook him—he knew this because he had hidden inside it once—and two large shelves, one hosted a row of flavoring agents, the one directly below it, colors all meticulously lined up. The cabinets were stuffed with add-ins. Nuts, candies that cracked in your mouth when you sucked on them, thick, sturdy jellies cut into squares, waiting to be dipped in chocolate were nestled in an ice bath, and hand-made marshmallows were just behind them.

Jack took a deep breath and bellowed, _"_ _ **Bunny!**_ _"_

He had hoped to rattle him and make him mess up. He did not. Bunnymund was in the chocolate zone, and he could not be easily removed. "Hmm?"

Shock tactics were not going to work. Jack crossed his legs in mid-air. He did not _dare_ sit on the hallowed chocolate counter-top. "You know Millie?"

He smiled big, "Course I know Millie! Little ankle-biter comes round here for orange jellies all the time. Can't get enough of the stuff."

"Good." Jack replied, "Because I've got a few questions."

Bunny was possessed by such a complacent and peaceful mood when he was making chocolate. It was downright strange. "What kind of questions?" he said ladling the orange-chocolate mix into a large mold of several tiny little eggs in precise scoops.

"You'll tell it like it is." Jack pestered, "You'll tell me what happened to Millie. How she died?"

"Ah, well..." his fond smile seemed to imply he did not notice what he was saying, maybe Jack would finally get some answers, "That little tyke joined us some time ago... It's going pretty far back..."

"There are not many spirits." Jack said. He drifted closer, laying in the air like a chaise, holding his crook close to him, laced between his crossed ankles, "You probably know how it happened."

"Oh, yeah, I do." He continued to ladle his chocolate.

"Bunny."

"I do, mate."

"So, you'll tell me?"

With a smile, Bunnymund looked at Jack. He took a breath, ready do tell the serious and sad tale. He opened his eyes—his face stretched in shock, he jumped, splashing chocolate all over the counter. "Oh, crikey!"

" _Bunny!_ "

"Look here, I don't want to tell you."

"Why not?"

"I just... _don't_."

"But you were _just about to!_ "

"Was not! It's not something for me to say! It's not something to share!" Bunnymund replied.

"That's what _Tooth_ said!"

" _And she was right_!" Bunny affirmed, "We try not to focus on the bad, mate. Children need to believe in us, and we need to believe in _ourselves."_ he thumped a fist against his chest, _"_ We can't dwell on what we can't protect them from."

"Who says I'll dwell?"

"I says you'll dwell."

"Well, I won't."

Bunnymund tried a different approach, "Now look here, have we ever asked you who _you_ were before you were turned, or how you died?"

"My name was Jackson Overland and I died saving my little sister from falling through thin ice." Jack replied. He smiled and crossed his arms triumphantly.

"See that?" Bunny started to lecture, "See how I _didn't_ ask? Asking is rude, and you shouldn't do it. You shouldn't snoop around like that because you'll find something you really—really don't want to find."

"You say that with such certainty."

"Out!" Bunny ordered, waving the chocolate covered spoon in his face. A drop of chocolate splashed onto his cheek and turned solid there. Jack picked it off and popped it into his mouth.

"Tasty." He remarked. He jumped over Bunnymund and grabbed a tray of chocolate covered jellies. The ceiling was just high enough for Jack to flatten himself against and miss Bunny's fingers. It was difficult to balance the tray and avoid him, but aside from a snag by claws on his hoodie, he managed to remain unscathed.

"Give it back!"

"Tell me how Millie died!"

"Keep it!"

Jack, more miffed now than exited, kept the chocolate out of spite. He did not actually _like_ chocolate, it left a dry, sticky feeling in his mouth that nothing could really wash away, but if Bunny was not going to tell him, Jack certainly was _not_ going to return them. Screw that. He made off with the whole tray, a little angry, and a little bit ashamed of his actions, but mostly, still curious. He had spent a good chuck of time trying to find out about Millie's past—and it was all wasted. The only thing he had found was more reason to be curious, and he did not need or want that.

The last person on his list was Sandy.

He found him conducting dreams in Africa. When he saw Jack he smiled brightly and waved, letting the sands spread on their own while Jack floated over and set his cold toes down on the gritty and warm cloud.

There was no need for formalities with Sandy—that was one of the things Jack liked about him. He could get right down to the nitty-gritty and state his piece.

"Can you tell me how Millie died?"

Sandy smiled sadly, took Jack's hand, and patted it comfortingly. Jack could tell by the understanding and sympathetic look in his eyes that, yes, he would tell Jack exactly what happened, and that no matter what Jack through, he would be there for him. Above his earnest eyes and spiked hair, A symphony of symbols conducted themselves in front of Jack's face—none of which he understood. But still, Sanderson held his hand and patted it like he was revealing some terrible and heavy truth to him, something secret, some rite that was just between the two of them, something that Tooth, Bunny and North would never understand, something that could never be shared with them.

"Uh... Th-thanks, Sandy."

But it did not help. Jack still knew next to nothing about Millie, and now he just wondered why everyone was treating the matter so strangely? He had thought at first that it was simply because they did not want to share it—and certainly, that was fair enough, the fact that there were kids in the world that the Guardians could not protect was upsetting, but now that Sandy was not letting go of his hand, Jack began to wonder if it did not go deeper than that.

Bunny had been about to tell him, but then he had stopped himself when he had realized who he was talking too. If it had been someone else—the Leprechaun, Cupid, even the _Groundhog_ —would he have done the same? If someone other than Jack had asked for Millie's memories, would Tooth have given them up? What if it was not _about_ Millie?

Could it be? What if it was?

Was it _him_?

Jack forced a smiled and slipped his hand out of Sandy's. Sandy tilted his head and looked confused, like he expected Jack to have a bigger reaction to the tale. Then, there came terror and he reached for him, and as Jack flew away, resignation. His story had not gotten through.

Why? Why did the others not tell him, when Sandy did?

Sure, Jack had not understood, but Sandy had at least _tried._

Was it because he was new? Was it really _so_ terrible they did not think the Guardian of _Fun_ could take it?

Did Sandy just appreciate what he had done against Pitch more? That could not be it. Jack refused to believe that Sandy trusted and liked him more than the others. Not because it was not possible—it was very possible—but because he just could not bear the feelings of rejection that came with that suspicion.

Deeply saddened by even the thought, Jack drifted on the wind, and watched the clouds roll by below him. He thought about what Bunnymund had said, about not looking because he would find something he did not want to find. What was it?

What should Jack be so afraid of finding?


End file.
